


Wir waren mal wir

by brownest_goldfish_intheair



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pain, you know what we're like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:22:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25575019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brownest_goldfish_intheair/pseuds/brownest_goldfish_intheair
Summary: "He doesn’t belong anywhere near the places I let go of my dignity in hope of a little release; he belongs in the long hours that follow, suffered quietly and religiously and always alone."
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Helsinki | Mirko Dragic/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 7
Kudos: 38





	Wir waren mal wir

**Author's Note:**

> @hemisphaeric and I came up with this prompt and each wrote our own version of it, enjoy 🌝
> 
> this is hers: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25588504
> 
> you can find the prompt in the end notes.

_He wouldn’t have touched me like that._  
  
It’s this, I think, that breaks something in me, every time.  
  
Back in Palermo I sought out lovers – or whatever you call someone who relentlessly pounds into you with no regard to your reactions – that I could never compare to him. If a man smiled at me, it would be over. They could not be charming or handsome or _nice_.  
I’d need them to see me as nothing but a body. And once we were home, or in a dirty bathroom stall, or in a back alley next to a club, I’d ask them to be merciless; tell them to choke me; grip me so tight I wouldn’t be able to escape if I wanted to and not stop if I screamed in pain. It was animalistic and shameful and perfect.  
  
I have never thought about him while I let someone else fuck me. What I felt for him; what he was to me, is pure and sacred; and what strangers do to me after dark, is disgraceful. He doesn’t belong anywhere near the places I let go of my dignity in hope of a little release; he belongs in the long hours that follow, suffered quietly and religiously and _always_ alone.  
  
Waking up to the presence of another person next to me is like the air suffocating me.  
  
_He shouldn’t be here._  
  
He shouldn’t be allowed into the space where I keep _his_ memory. I committed treason by allowing him in; letting him stay; and now no matter how far I scoot to the edge of the mattress, it doesn’t make the body next to me disappear; doesn’t make my betrayal excusable.  
  
Helsinki had _nothing_ of Andrés: He was big and plump; there was not a trace of elegance or etiquette in his movements or his words. He was a soldier, ready to take lives at a simple command. He was crude and ruthless; he wasn’t _soft._  
  
And then he _was_ soft. He _smiled_ ; he smiled when he pulled me onto his lap; and I regretted it instantly. I regretted the wine and the talking; I regretted the flirting and the dirty looks. I regretted making myself _seen_ – enough, apparently, for him to think he had any right to be kind to me, to want me to _enjoy_ it.  
It was like needles being pricked into my skin, everywhere at once, and I wanted to push him away, with all the strength I had left in me, against the burning in my lungs.  
  
So I nudged his shoulders - he gave _in_ , oh, he wasn’t supposed to let me lead - and turned around, clearly signalling to him that he could tear me apart, take everything and leave me empty.  
  
I’d become so good at giving, letting them _have_ , that I’d forgotten how it felt to have someone give to me.  
When this strong man gently ran his hands down my chest before using them to frame my hips as he sank into me, way too carefully, he touched something in me that hadn’t been touched in years. And oh, it _hurt_.  
I thought I’d choke on the pain as I gritted my teeth against his slow thrusts. He was too close; his breath too warm on the back of my neck, and for the first time since I’d made my body into a toy to be used, I wanted ownership back.  
  
I’ve been pushed to the ground and spit on, had men shove their dicks so deep down my throat I was hoarse for days, been fucked dry and so roughly, I woke up with my pants soaked in blood and unable to move my legs. But none of it stung as bitterly as Helsinki kissing my neck when I came; holding me up to his chest while I desperately pressed my lips together against my moans.  
  
I made him leave, that first night, in a ridiculous attempt to reclaim my pride; to convince myself that he had got it wrong; that I didn’t need to be caressed or held. But when he pulled me closer on the mattress the next night, I gave in. In the rush of endorphins and the aftershocks of unexpected pleasure, I let myself drift off beside his comfortable warmth.  
  
I should have known better, sure, but sex has always had the ability to make me absolutely blind to any sort of consequences. And if I’m being honest, I’ve simply never liked sleeping alone.  
  
_Pathetic._ It shoots through my head like electric shocks as I settle on my side, with as much distance put between us as possible, letting my tears collect right under my cheek; holding my breath while they soak my pillow; make me lie in my weakness. I want to _gasp_ for air; want to scream through the pain and punch the sheets and the walls and my knees just to make it a little more bearable. But I can’t move; can’t make a sound because Helsinki can’t _know_ ; it would kill me if he knew.  
So I clutch the blanket to my chest and pretend it’s Andrés’ hands, imagine I could touch him and beg him for forgiveness.  
  
_He wouldn't have touched me like that._ It hits me every time, like my thoughts twisting the knife; but it’s different tonight – because he wouldn’t have touched me like Helsinki does, no, but with the same tenderness; with the same amount of love.  
  
I always sought out lovers that I could never compare to him, because I knew it would destroy me – and it does.  
  
Helsinki did nothing wrong, he was nothing but _good_ to me; and still, he will suffer. He will suffer because life is cruel like that – he stepped into the mine field that is my company, and I pulled him in because I’m cruel like that too.  
I have used up all my love; given it away embarrassingly eagerly in the very rooms that surround us, and watched it dissolve like clouds of smoke in the same space Sergio is now explaining his version of _our_ plan every day, carelessly trampling everything that ever mattered to me.  
  
Now I feel nothing but hatred; toward him, toward myself; toward anyone and everything that isn’t _Andrés_. Andrés, who would have run his hands down my chest too, but more slowly, who would have kissed my neck in the same places, but sucked harder, and Andrés, who _knew_ me.  
  
He would have done everything right, would have taken me exactly the way I needed him to. Like when he kissed me; when he _fucked my heart with his lips_ and it was heaven and hell and I wanted it forever.  
But he’s gone. He’s gone, and I will never be known again.  
  
I can’t help but whimper and it makes me instantly freeze, sure that Helsinki has heard me. My hands are shaking, pressed to my lips, as I wait. But his breathing stays even and calm and I try to match it, slowly, carefully, as if I’d just come up from underwater, before I turn onto my back.  
  
I feel exhausted and numb and a particularly ugly part of me wants me to rest my head on Helsinki’s chest; to pretend that I _am_ what he sees in me; that I'm not utterly ruined.  
  
But I am - he will know soon enough; and it will be a massacre.  
So I sniff quietly, close my eyes, and try to cherish the time we have left. Before I ruin him too.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading xx
> 
> The prompt was "Martín wakes up at night after having slept with Mirko and thinks about Andrés. And cries :)"


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